


Made Equal

by SandrC



Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Spoilers for Episode 42: Henry's Father and the Chamber of Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26599015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: Our capacity for love increases with each person we cross paths with throughout our lives and with each moment we spend with those people. But too often we neglect that part of ourselves in favor of others, and by the time we realize just how important it is, we find ourselves with fewer folks around to practice with.— Griffin McElroyThe tragedy of Autumn Oak.
Relationships: Autumn (Dungeons and Daddies)/Barry Oak
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Made Equal

**Author's Note:**

> I am given a new woman character and I go whole feral. Is it a disease? Yes. Do I want a cure? No. Let me die of it.
> 
> So Autumn is so inherently tragic? And, not to discount Will's amazing acting, but the way Anthony-as-Autumn interacted with him says so much with so little? Like...I'm still reeling and it's been a week. So I started playing in the space (and by playing, I mean handcrafting knives to shove into weak emotional chinks in your feels meat). And then it continued.
> 
> No chill Sandr strikes again though! Just out here writing my best life haha.
> 
> I rated it the way I did because, if I'm being honest, this is gonna be rough? Like...Barry notwithstanding, how Autumn views Henry is not great I'm sure. How much of Henry does she see and how much of Henry is just another Barry? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I play there, in that space. It's painful haha.
> 
> One final note before the CW (and please lemme know if I should add anything to this because I'm not always the best judge of what should be marked): Autumn worships Selûne, goddess of the moon, truth, marriages, love, and powerful women. Yes this is on purpose. My nerd is showing. Also fuck any consistency in time dilation. I wanna have fun here haha.
> 
> CW: dehumanizing language, emotional abuse, Willy Stampler being a creep around women, what amounts to an abusive marriage (though the specifics are left vague on purpose), imagined revenge fantasies

Her father always told her that a person was defined by their capacity to love. That, with every encounter they had with another person, every bond they forged along their life, they became more. That the only difference between a monster and a person was not their race or what they believed, but their ability to love someone.

A slaad can be a person if they have something they fight for. An aasamir can be a monster if they don't care for anyone.

It is _love_ that marks the man from the beast. And even animals are people, for they can love each other.

Her mother always told her that Selûne's call for her would change, as the moon did, throughout her life. That she would perhaps be a goddess of adventure at first, then a goddess of guidance, then a goddess of marriage. To embrace change as the centermost part of her faith. To listen to the call of the moon, of the Night White Lady, and heed her. So when her sixteenth year came and she felt gripped with wanderlust, her mother outfitted her with her old armor, a pair of well-kept, matched daggers, and her own holy symbol on a silver chain. Her mother and father pressed kisses into her forehead, wished her well, and pointed her to the nearest town with a smile. And she, with her father's lessons of love and kindness and her mother's lessons of faith and instinct ingrained on her soul, set out on an adventure to follow the moon where it led.

Daggers in hand, she did her best to right wrongs and do good, but she never found a place that called to her as much as home had. Wandering from place to place, passing from party to party, and sleeping under the Lady's watchful gaze, she wondered if the wanderlust in her would ever quell. If she would find the happiness her mother had found in her father and his hometown. If she would find her hearth to hang her blades above. If she would ever feel the shift from wanderer to healer or wanderer to matron. If quiet contentment would ever be in reach.

Several years passed and she heard tell of a great druid and speaker from a commune called Oakvale. He was called Bear Ri'Oak and spoke of perfection as an attainable goal. He spoke of shaping things into their truest form with a warm and patient hand. He spoke of being a gardener of men and beast alike. He spoke of home and warmth and belonging. Everything she had yearned for and everything she found no solace in as she adventured. So she took a detour from Waterdeep to seek him out and listen, hoping his teachings would perhaps loose something in her or, at the least, cement what already was.

The first time she saw him, he was framed by the rising sun. The warm light filtered through the cool green of the leaves and silhouetted him like a statue in a city square. His white-blonde hair was done back in a thick braid accented with brilliant periwinkle hydrangeas woven in. Arms spread wide, he spoke in a calm voice that echoed across the clearing just outside of his home with a strength that moved Autumn's heart—as well as the hearts of his congregation. His vibrant green eyes scanned the crowd as he spoke and, for a moment, she could _swear_ he saw her and matched her gaze. That he smiled at _her_ , symmetrical and sincere.

Something in her settled, like Selûne was shifting within her, changing phases _at long last_. From wandering and adventure, to putting down roots, she felt at home listening to his voice. She felt _seen_ looking into his eyes. She felt _loved_ in his presence.

So she stayed another day and took part in the commune's activities. Helped the residents of Oakvale harvest their crops. Attended lessons and speeches and teachings. Watched as they plied their crafts. Offered her services as a healer and cleric to those that would need her.

A week passed. Then a month. Then she realized she wasn't going to leave and, as strange as it was, it felt _right_.

In the back of her head, a warning in retrospect, she wondered if staying here, if listening to him was some form of sacrilege. If this was breaking her vow to uphold the love and guidance of Selûne, listening to him speak of the possibility of perfection. Antithesis to her teachings of change, his teachings were that of rigidity and she wondered, in her farthest of thoughts, if she was straying from her tenants by internalizing his lessons.

Another part of her was certain, as certain as any one woman _could_ be, that this was the type of man that would climb his way to the Celestial Plane with his words and charm. Like Lythander or Kelemvor, he would and could easily become divine, by virtue of his wit and devotion. And moreso, his followers— _their_ word for themselves, _not_ his, as he would say they were his children, his _family in knowledge_ —would break their backs to lift him to that goal, so that he might pluck down the sun himself and gift it to them, should he choose to do so.

When _he_ chose _her_ , out of any of the others in his commune to court, she felt special. _Seen_.

And _she_ , foolish and young, mistaking the screaming klaxons in her head for wedding bells, fell in love. And _she_ , foolish and young and in love, had a child with him. And _she_ , foolish and young and in love and with child, hung her daggers over his hearth and settled for the role he asked her to fill.

She did truly love him once, however. Tinted in the rose and warmth of nostalgia, it's hard to read the red flags as anything but flags, but she still can recount the things she loved about him like a poem.

His hair was spun gold, almost white, but when the sun ran through it during his morning lessons it glimmered like a river. His laugh, when she was graced with it, was fairy bells and windchimes, cold and clear like crystal striking stone. His skin was dappled with freckles, sun-kissed across his muscular shoulders and fine face, accenting his time in the elements. His magic was fluid and always carried with it a mysterious air, a near yearning for something _no one_ could name.

And beyond that: he loved her. Or was very good at _pretending_ he did. In retrospect she wasn't certain he was ever _capable_ of love, only mimicking the act for his own benefit, a pitcher plant sitting still in wait of prey.

When Hen was born, _something_ in him changed. It wasn't as simple as his attitude—though that did shift, slowly, like a sinkhole rather than a landslide—but something intrinsic to his person seemed to dim and dull. His sermons—she had learned his dismissing that word was only a front, he _did_ view himself as some kind of holy man, _despite_ his lack of faith in anything save his own merit and movement—became less of an experience. The words were there, his charisma still grand and sweeping, and it seemed as if nature _still_ framed him in halos and silhouettes against the dirt and leaves beneath him, but there was a certain _essence_ that was missing and some of the more orbital members left the commune. And not soon after, she began to see the flaws in his façade.

The lavish nature of his own home while the rest of Oakvale was simple and minimalist became a warning sign in sharp relief, even as he told her they were gifts from the others. The fact that he lived in a _literal_ temple was an indicator to his truth. And she, young and foolish and in love, tired and taking care of their child, _chose_ to ignore it because it was easier than paying attention.

She had more important things to worry about. Like _Hen_. Like _their child_.

Hen was _so_ similar to Bear. He had his father's blonde hair—though _his_ was a little closer to her own brown, the honey gold lowlights curling wisps against his forehead, turning to amber in the sun—and his baby blue eyes slowly became a mossy green—less vibrant than Bear's own bright spring, but more than her own chestnut. His skin was soft and pale, dusted with freckles, though as he grew older he burned faster than he browned, leaving him slathered in creams and whining, rubbing tears with reddened, chubby fists. But for _all_ he looked like Bear, the way he smiled was too much like _her own father_ , and she felt herself love him more than she had loved _anyone else_ in existence.

And, in spite of her fears, Selûne's cool light seemed to boost that love as if she was blessing it herself. _Unlike_ her marriage to Bear—the moon had been new in the sky and, for all she knew that it was only another aspect of the Night White Lady, it felt like an ill omen, to have her marriage not blessed by the gaze of her goddess—Hen's birth was auspicious. Loving him felt like she was back home, in her mother's arms, listening to her father talk about the harvest and the gossip in town and a story an adventurer told her as he made a hearty stew with toasted bread.

So it was _horrifying_ the first time he came to her with tears in his eyes after one of Bear's lessons to the commune, having been made an example of. Bear, eyes as light as always, mouth a mockery of kindness, used how his own son failed to do a complicated task as an illustration for falling short. And Hen did his best to smile in front of everyone else—the two of them were not allowed to be up in front of the congregation, instead a _part_ of it as Bear spoke to everyone _equally_ —but as soon as they split for daily tasks, he buried his face into her pants and fell to pieces.

"Did I do something _wrong_ mama?" He choked around fat tears and shaking breaths. "Am I _bad_ for not being able to do that?"

" _No_ ," she said as she rubbed small circles in his back, shocked at the fury that lanced through her body, fraying at her love for Bear. " _No_ , baby. You aren't bad. _No one_ is perfect, _I promise_."

" _Father is._ " _There_ , the branch she tied her lead to. A sharp clarity illuminated by moonlight, a thin sliver, waxing crescent. The truth of the matter she has chosen to ignore for so long. Not a leash but a _noose_. Not a tether but _an end_. A trap. Slipknot tight around her ankle.

She smiled sadly down at her son. Pressing a kiss into his hair, she murmured, "Even father makes mistakes." She would come to regret those words.

In the same way that a fever burns illness from the body, the ice cold horror of realization burned the love she felt for Bear from her body until nothing but anger and hatred remained. That a monster could so easily masquerade as a person for _so long_ and not be caught was _horrifying_. That he would, time and time again, _use_ her child— _not_ their, _her_ , because she could see _no_ love in him for Hen, instead a cold and calculating understanding of a _resource_ for his homilies—as a lesson and impart unto him that he was _lesser_ for his flaws. That as soon as she had given him what he wanted—a child, an heir, someone to carry on his legacy— _she_ didn't matter.

And it wasn't as if she didn't love him. _She did_. It's just that she became aware that he had bound her limbs in the threads of her love and made her dance to his tune. He viewed love as a resource and bonds as something useful.

And so she allowed her love to become bitter alcohol and bottled it up for the moment to strike.

_Before_ she was a mother and a wife, she was an _adventurer_. She knew the virtues of patience. She could plan for an ambush.

During a speech—she couldn't tell what it had been about, just that the rage that filled her was white hot and any modicum of decorum was lost in that moment—she buried one of her mother's daggers in his back. Not deep _enough_ , it seemed, but the relief was _palpable_ and she reached for the second dagger before the commune pinned her under their weight, incapacitating her. Bear pulled the dagger from his shoulder—she had been _so close_ to hitting something vital though, in her rush to get it over with and shut him up, she had miscalculated—and looked at it, then back at her.

His eyes, devoid of any fear, were deep beryl portals of frustration and _disappointment_.

The next day, no one in Oakvale could cause harm to one another or even themselves. And her hatred—because the last of her love for him bled out under the weight of his loyal believers, pressed wine into bitter vinegar—fermented and rotted, fetid and sharp malcontent, anger cold enough to bite, and she _cursed_ Bear Ri'Oak with everything she had.

He didn't restrict her movement, _despite_ what she thought. She assumed he would lock her in her room and prevent her from leaving or from seeing her son. She assumed he would make her a prisoner in his home. She assumed he would actualize the metaphorical chains she was bound in already.

Instead _nothing_ changed and that was _worse_.

Or, _no_ , that wasn't true. Something _did_ change, but it was internal instead of external.

She found herself unable to look at her son without it curdling the sour-milk resentment in her gut.

She found herself unable to care that her anger was consuming her love for Hen.

She only hated Bear with every passing moment and wished, with everything she had, that she had managed to kill him right then. Because she _knew_ , as she knew the phases of the moon and the pull of the tides and the shapes of her prayers to Selûne—long abandoned and dusty, having fallen by the wayside to try and salvage her life with Bear and Hen—that she would never get that chance again and he would simply turn it into another teaching moment.

The woman who fell prey to her disgusting anger. The woman who was imperfect and reckless. The woman who tried to kill her husband, their leader, and _failed_. The importance of patience and practice. Of clarity and calm. Of so-called _forgiveness_.

Oakvale, for all its beautiful symmetry, became a maze of mirrors and mistakes. Bear became _reprehensible_. Hen became a reflection of that. Echoes, the sun and the moon, and she, an orbiting satellite, hoping that the pull of gravity would be enough to launch her into his path and destroy her or him. _Or both._

But Hen suffered _far_ more than she did. She _chose_ this life. She _chose_ to stay. _He_ was a child, he didn't _get_ a choice. Even when Hen apologized and looked to her for love, she couldn't give it to him because it would be giving the same love to _Bear_. She had to close herself off. She had to be empty to contain all the hatred and drive she was building. She couldn't afford to love him.

(She had become the same monster that she shared a home with. It was only fair that she chose to stay and pursue revenge instead of taking her son and fleeing, finding happiness elsewhere. She couldn't call herself a person after that. She didn't deserve the chance to.)

She can remember, with _shocking_ clarity, the day Hen disappeared. The cry she let out as she stepped into his room and found a shattered mirror, a smiling Bear, and _no Hen_. The elation that swept her limbs was a cold shock to her system. The tide rushed out, a brief howl of love and joy, that her son had escaped this awful place and, with it, Bear's grasp. And then, as it returned, she remembered that she was still trapped, and the resentment settled in the bottom of her heart. She viewed the scene with longing and spite, and time passed.

For all his eccentricities and awful controlling nature, Bear had always seemed like he had a _purpose_. When Hen disappeared, he seemed to lose _even that_. He just spent _hours_ building homunculi in his room, hands covered in mud and face pensive and consumed, a man possessed. Each homunculi, unmoving mockeries of her son, looked like they could have been their children. Each homunculi built while he muttered softly to himself about various aspects of Hen, so caught up in his own mind that he never saw her watching him.

Autumn _could_ have shattered the crystal and killed him then but she didn't know where he kept it. She could have left but she didn't _want_ to let go. She _wanted_ to hurt him. She was, insofar as _she_ could tell, too far gone to salvage what might have remained of her humanity.

So she stayed and watched him spiral, spiteful and smiling.

She was glad Hen got away from this den of monsters. At least _he_ could be a person, given enough of Bear or herself didn't live in him.

Would she even _have_ to make a move? Or would this new obsession—not _perfection_ , though the commune continued to move forward, operating in his absence as if he was just busy—consume him?

It _might've_ if it hadn't been for that warlock.

Hatred is a _strong_ word, a strong _emotion_ , and it is all Autumn could feel any more. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion, they were annoyances in the face of the typhoon of fury that raged in her chest, but all of that quelled, replaced by ice cold fear, as the warlock entered Oakvale.

Dressed in a long purple robe that obscured his face and the rest of his features, he brought with him an air of oppression. If Autumn wasn't _certain_ that the ward against violence was up and impenetrable, she would have feared for her life around him. Just _being in his presence_ made her feel ill, like he carried with him a miasma. For all her bond with Selûne was frayed and worn to thin threads, she could _feel_ the Lady recoil at him being around. He made her skin crawl to look at and _she_ knew _he_ knew it, because he made sure to _always_ be visible when she was out and about.

She could feel his eyes on her, his gaze dissecting her every movement. She could hear the sotto voce statements made just in earshot of her, discussing with Bear "putting her in her place" and "have you considered simply _breaking_ her". She was a force of nature when Bear was concerned but the warlock grinning leering beneath his hood as she passed _quelled_ her fire, though not her feeling. And as time passed, the homunculi were _walking around_ , mockeries of people. She wondered what it meant when Selûne cried around them until she saw the warlock snap an animal's neck with his bare hands without a second thought, the soul from the poor creature animating the mud.

He was making _everything_ worse and she was too _terrified_ of him to _hate_ him.

But she _stayed_ , tethered and tied with chains she had built out of her own emotional bonds. She prayed, nightly, for rest for the animals sacrificed to bring to life Bear's sick plans. She threw herself back into the old ways of Selûne, hoping the devotion would be _enough_. Would fill the hole. Would keep her satisfied until her eventual end, long before Bear himself passed and her revenge was completed.

_Ten years._ Ten years before he deigned to grace her with his presence outside of the communal events. Ten years of locking herself in an enclosed space to avoid having to see the broken echo chamber that Oakvale had become. Ten years of pretending like the resentment she held for her son was _just_ that he escaped.

Bear didn't knock. He didn't _need_ to; no one in Oakvale locked their doors or their houses so why would he bother announcing himself? He was _always_ wanted.

(She was knitting in a chair, occupying her hands—hands that _ached_ to wrap around Bear's neck and _squeeze_ the life from him. She had found comfort in creation, _despite_ it all. She _always_ burned what she made after she was done so he couldn't taint another thing of hers. She would rather have _ashes_ than _another_ Hen.)

He didn't knock as he entered and he leaned over her shoulder, smiling wide. "I would like to _cordially_ invite you to the feast," he said, simpering and sweet.

She did not meet his eyes, opting to keep working on her scarf. " _What for?_ "

"For the return of _our son_ , of course!" She slipped, the needle tearing a small gouge in her hand, the sharp pain a bright point of focus. He continued, though she _knew_ he saw her face and _reveled_ in her horror. "He's finally coming home, _where he belongs_. You should be there to greet him, Autumn. A child needs his mother, after all."

She didn't answer him, letting her magic stitch up the wound on her hand, quietly schooling her panic to mild distaste. Bear patted her on the shoulder and she flinched, tense until he had exited her room, door closed behind him. Only then did she allow herself to relax and breathe.

Not breathe, _hyperventilate_. Short, broken gasps.

He had gotten away. He had gotten away and he was _coming back_? He was coming back _here_?! What had Bear done to lure Hen back? _What had—?_

No. _No._

She couldn't worry. Worry was _weakness_. If she showed weakness, Bear would use that against her. She couldn't afford to give him any more of herself.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and exhaled.

If Hen _was_ back—if Hen was coming _here_ —she _wouldn't_ see him. She _couldn't_. It would _break her_.

This was, of course, assuming he wasn't _lying_ to her. He was good at lying to himself _and_ to others. His entire world was built on lies.

(He was, unfortunately, telling the truth.)

Hen looked _older_. Older than she thought possible, if she was being honest. Ten years ago he had been a young man of twenty or so—she had _tried_ to escape the memory of his birthday many times, drowning the day in liquor and angry destruction in an attempt to forget, to associate this day with pain and catharsis instead of the joy of her first and only child but it never stuck—but _now_ he looked more like Bear than ever before. Skinny—gangly, like a teen but _worse_ —with knobbly limbs tucked close to his body. His hair a lighter blond, washed out by the sun, pale skin burned beneath scruffy facial hair and strange clothing. Glasses with thick, dark rims and cracked lenses sat crooked on his nose. He wouldn't meet her gaze.

(There, _there_ , the taste of resentment. So sweet it _burns_. So bitter it lingers. She had _almost_ forgotten, in the decade he was gone, what _hating him_ felt like. She pulled the comforting lack of personhood around her like a cloak. Put up her walls.)

His voice was low, crackling. _He looked so much like Bear_. He sounded so lost. _He looked so much like Bear._ Behind him were a group of equally strange adventurers and three children, all _equally_ lost looking. _He looked so much like Bear._

Behind the whining in her ears, she heard him say he missed her. _Did_ he though? _Did_ he miss her or was he happy, living far away from this den of monsters?

She bit back a hard laugh, instead opting to rebuff him with all the energy she could muster. "I missed you too for - _for a little while_. And then I thought, _no_ , it's _good_ , you got away—you got away from _all this_ but now you're back and _things are gonna be worse_." The honesty slipped out but, really, wasn't it _better_ if she didn't lie to him? Wasn't it _better_ if he knew _nothing_ had changed?

But he _kept pushing_ , tears in his eyes, and she looked at him. _Really_ looked at him, pushing at the film of hatred that painted _everything_ Bear touched.

The way he stood—even older, _too old_ for the ten years, grey at his temples and face lined in a way Bear would _never_ allow himself to express—was...familiar. _painfully_ so. For all that he might be an adult now, the stance he took in front of her—hunched over, shoulders at his ears, hands worrying close to his chest, playing with a ring on his finger nervously, eyes cast to the ground—was reminiscent of a memory.

He was ten or so, _barely_ old enough to have his own room, and she caught him standing outside her door late at night. Even at _this_ time, her and Bear were in separate rooms, in separate _beds_ , so the fact that he came to her room was _telling_. When she caught him, he cast his gaze to the ground, worrying at his hands. He had had a nightmare and wanted comfort but he knew, _even then_ , that his father wouldn't give it to him. And, because of that, he was afraid _she_ wouldn't either. He was asking for help but afraid to do so out loud.

She remembered picking him up, holding him close, and falling asleep pressed together. She remembered standing between him and Bear the next morning, eyes stone and steel as he chastised Hen for being childish. She remembered the screaming match she got into—one-sided because _he was right_ , so why would he raise his voice?—and how upset it made Hen. She remembered how he never asked to sleep with her again for the discomfort of the argument.

He looked, for _all_ the difference time brought with it, _just_ like he did back then. Right down to the fear and guilt.

And for the first time in ten years, she felt something _other_ than rage or fear flush through her.

Autumn wanted to hold him close and comfort him.

But she _couldn't._

And _he kept fucking going_. Trying to _apologize_ , trying to _talk_ to her, could he not see that _she didn't want him there_? Was he _blind_ to the fact that he was happier _far_ away from this hellshole? Was he unable to comprehend that _he had gotten away_? That _Bear_ , that _she_ , corrupted _everything_ they touched? That Oakvale was a home for monsters?!

She bared her teeth at him, feral, and grabbed him. She told him to _kill Bear_. And, as she did, putting herself close enough to him to get a closer look at the people behind him, her blood ran cold.

The children he was with...one of them was a scruffy eight year old boy with missing teeth and sharp eyes projecting a wisdom beyond his years. The _other two_ looked so much like Hen when he was younger that it _hurt_.

(Curly hair, blonde with honey lowlights—tighter curls that lasted past baby fat, ringlets pulled back in puffs to keep them neat—with flowers and sticks poking out of the rat's nest. Eyes a deep hazel, not moss green, but still close enough to be obvious, inquisitive and _accusatory_. Mouths pulled in thin frowns. Skin darker than his but still dusted with amber freckles and scuffed and dirtied. Like someone had dragged Hen out of the past and changed pieces of him around, those two were memories given form.)

For a _brief_ moment she thought they were like the other residents of Oakvale, homunculi created to fill the space Hen had left in Bear when he escaped. Then she realized, _no_ , they _couldn't_ be. They were too _unique_ , too _unlike_ Hen to be those broken hollow people with animal souls. And the way Hen placed himself between _her_ and _them_ , like he was shielding them, _despite_ the desperation in his voice that she _look at him, **hear** him, mom, I'm gonna make it better, **I promise.**_

What kind of monster _was_ she if she didn't recognize parental love when she saw it?

_How much_ of her humanity had she given to her revenge fantasy? How deep under the dark surface of the ocean had she fallen, far away from Selûne's grace, to have forgotten the fear and love of a parent who _wants their child to be safe_?

She broke from him. Pushed back in her room. _Screamed_.

If she saw them, if she _met_ them, if Bear was alive and Hen _didn't_ leave, then these boys would be _another_ cog in Oakvale's disgusting machinery of obsession and solipsism. They would cease to be people, only fuel for whatever Bear wanted.

She _couldn't_ handle that. _She **couldn't—**_

For _all_ she tried to abandon her humanity so it would stop hurting, she _couldn't. She **couldn't.**_ _Not again._

Bear was a monster by birth, of _this_ she was certain. _She_ was a monster by design, broken to combat the minotaur in the maze of mirrors and so-called perfection.

_Hen_ wasn't.

He _wasn't_ Bear, for _all_ he looked like him. Bear _never_ protected _anyone_ but himself. Bear never _apologized_. Bear never listened to her when she _begged_ him to leave.

When she told Hen to go, _he did_. He closed the door behind him, eyes shining with terror and grief and understanding, and he left her.

And Autumn, a small piece of her humanity handed back to her, wept like she was dying.

_What makes a person is not their **race** ,_ her father had said, _but their capacity to **love**._

With one simple act, Hen handed back the love he took with him.

_It hurt._

But it was _hope_ , selfish and wild.

_Please, Selûne, give him the strength and the skills to kill him. **Please** , I would give my life for him to be free. I would drown in the undertow if only so he can be happy far **far** away from here and from us and from all of this **fucked up bullshit** that haunts our family._

And she waited, weeping, for the outcome.


End file.
